BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE. Our youth began with tears and sighs In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, Oh! foolish youth, untimely wise! Oh! phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old and worn, and tired we find Life's more amusing than we thought! Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies," We whistle where we once repined. Envoy. O nate mecum, worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught; Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind Life's more amusing than we thought! ANDREW LANG. BALLADE FOR THE LAUREATE. (After Theodore de Banville.) Khyme, in a late disdainful age, Hath many and many an eager knight, Each man of them, to print his page, From every quarter wings his flight! What tons of manuscript alight Here in the Row, how many a while For all can rhyme, when all can writeThe master's yonder in the Isle ! Like Otus some, with giant rage, But scarcely with a giant's might, Ossa on Pelion engage To pile, and scale Parnassus' height! And wond'rous adjectives unite- These poets in a sorry plight! In vain they curse the Critic's spite ! Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright, ANDREW LANG. 1 For example dawning' and 'warning,' BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS. Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! Aye, we must dwindle and decrease, All empires tumble-Rome and Greece- Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled, I read no runes of hopeless loss; Envoy. Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold, In Islands of the Southern Cross ! ANDREW LANG. A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS. (To M. C.) Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers As she croons the runes of the blossoming? New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.- Ah! me for a breath of those morning hours But it cannot be that old Time devours Such loves as was Annie's and mine we sing, Save Muriel's beauty from perishing; To a quaint old garden I chance to go, Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?— Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. In these lives of ours do the new years bring BALLADE. O Love, whom I have never seen, The memory that might have been This August night outspread serene, That line of fire, where breaks the sea About your window bowered in green The shadow of the day when we Envoy. Princess, while yet on lawn and lea Ere August die, who knows but we "Love in Idleness." |